Was I keeping Galiano from his family?
Ridiculous. Dinner was strictly professional.
Was it?
It was a scheduling issue. We were both busy during working hours.
I dug mascara from the bottom of my makeup kit. Black flakes floated to the sink as I unscrewed the applicator.
Were these dinners with Galiano justified?
Strictly business.
Then why the long lashes?
I jammed the applicator back in its place and returned the unused tube to my kit.
Galiano picked me up at seven.
The restaurant was located in an arcade typical of Zone 1. Though beautiful once, the colonial grandeur and dignity had long ago yielded to peeling paint and crude graffiti.
But Galiano was right about the food. It was excellent.
As we ate, I described my visit to Solola. Galiano agreed with my suspicion that Molly might have been mistaken for me, insisted I take measures to protect myself. No argument there. I assured him I would stay vigilant. He suggested I carry a gun, offered to provide one. I declined, claiming trigger ineptness. I did not tell him that guns frighten me more than the thought of unknown assailants.
Galiano agreed that obstruction of the Chupan Ya investigation could well have been a motive for the shooting. If so, perhaps no further attacks would occur, since the excavation was complete. Still, he recommended that I not make trips to remote places. Recommended? Insisted.
Galiano was dubious about my Specter theory.
“It could explain why I haven’t been allowed full access to the Paraiso bones.”
“Why?”
“Someone’s putting pressure on the DA.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
His skepticism irritated me. Or perhaps it was my inability to provide answers.
Irrationally, my thoughts turned to the stumbling episode. Was there such a thing as tactile memory? Did my cheek
Of course not.
I listened in silence as he told me about the investigation of Claudia de la Alda’s murder. Galiano’s English was unaccented, but spoken with a Latin cadence. I liked his voice. I liked his crooked face.
I liked the way he looked at me. I liked the way he looked.
Business, Brennan. You’re a scientist, not a schoolgirl.
When the check arrived I grabbed it, dug out my Am Ex card, and thrust it into the waiter’s hand. Galiano did not object.
Back in the car, Galiano turned sideways and dropped an elbow over the seatback.
“What’s bugging you?” A neon sign pulsated blue and yellow slashes across his face.
“Nothing.”
“You’re acting like someone who’s just learned that people were trying to kill her.”
“A penetrating observation.” Though a misdiagnosis.
“I’m a sensitive guy.”
“Really.”
“I read
“Hm.”
He reached out and ran a thumb around the corner of my mouth. I turned my head sideways.
“Took notes.”
“Where is Mrs. Galiano this evening?”
For a moment, he looked confused. Then he laughed.
“With her husband, I presume.”
